The Consulting 5 year old's Rule Book
by whitchry9
Summary: Sherlock can't recall how he got there. John is calling him an idiot. Later, John writes a rule book for the consulting detective who is "just like a five-year-old." This pleases Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

He was vaguely aware of John calling him a bloody idiot. Hardly unusual.

What was unusual was the painfully slow reaction of his body. He had to consciously THINK his eyes to open, and it took a great deal of effort.

However he couldn't remember taking any drugs, so that couldn't be the case.

And even after all that work, it's too much, too bright, and it's so much easier just to close them. He sighs.

John is yelling at him, the tone makes that clear, but the words- are they even words?- seem to blend together and make no sense. It's almost funny. Sherlock would giggle if he could remember how.

John seems to notice this, because there is blissful silence for a second. He can feel John scrutinizing him.

Then John is attacking him, yanking his eyelids open and slapping his cheeks. Sherlock knows he wants a response, but is unsure how to go about doing that.

He coughs- and oh god that hurts, like crushing and stabbing and fire and dying all at once- what the hell did he do?

And he's gasping, which only hurts more, and he's sure he's going to die because surely no one can survive this pain, and sure he thought breathing was boring but it seems so damn necessary once you stop.

But John is there and John is a doctor and won't let Sherlock die. Right?

They must only be seconds, but they stretch for years of boring, before he can finally stop gasping and coughing, and can breathe without hurting.

He realizes he's cold, and the ground underneath him is rough, which is unusual. Where is he? But his head is on something soft and- oh, must be John's lap.

Cold, rough ground, but he still can't remember how he got here. Last thing? Crime scene, saw Molly at the morgue, which came first? And then there was Lestrade and maybe that was in between or last week.

Sherlock had never found thinking so hard. But someone had locked all the doors in his mind palace and changed the rooms around so he was wandering around in the dark twisting knobs that wouldn't turn.

But it seems he managed to unlock the language room because John's words are beginning to make sense, or would if he had some sort of context to put them in.

"You bloody idiot! What were you thinking trying avocados?"

No, that certainly wasn't right. Perhaps the language room wasn't quite right after all. There was a word for mixing words up in comprehension, but he couldn't remember what it was at that moment, which should hardly be surprising.

John kept shaking him, and it got to the point where it was so much easier to just open his eyes so John could stop shaking and slapping and prying.

He looked rather funny though, which Sherlock lazily thought might have something to do with his current mental state rather than John's physical appearance.

Sherlock is quite sure he didn't take any drugs, but can't figure out any other reason why his brain is so painfully sluggish.

Drugs, head injury, high fever, seizure, strokes, tumours, concussions- all possible causes of confusion. That's what this is right? Confusion?

Stroke is unlikely for someone his age, a tumour would likely have shown symptoms before this, he doesn't feel like he has a fever, in fact he's freezing and why the hell is John not keeping him warm? Drugs are a possibility, but can't recall, head injury or concussion could be likely. Are they on a case? He tends to get hurt on cases. Seizures were also unlikely because he isn't epileptic.

So, trauma is looking most likely, which would explain why John is trying to keep him awake.

Irritatingly so.

Sherlock tried to voice this frustration at being unable to sleep because of John's persistent nagging,

but it came out as a groan at best, which only resulted in more yelling from John.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? I've called for an ambulance, Lestrade should be here soon, he wasn't far away when this happened."

Sherlock groaned again, or tried to at least. What is 'this' that John is speaking of? If only his mouth could form words. Perhaps if he thought really hard in John's direction, he would get the message.

John seemed to be rather oblivious due to his panicking, and was mostly focused on the sound of approaching sirens, which made Sherlock's head throb. That might explain the confusion. He only just realized the pain radiating from his skull, which made the earlier pain of breathing seem like nothing.

There is blessed silence for a moment, then there are people touching him, grabbing him, poking him - people that are not John. Sherlock is not okay with this and tries to force his body to defend itself.

The attempts are ludicrous at best. His foot jerks up, likely as an attempt to kick someone, but barely makes it off the ground. He struggles away from the hands that are grabbing him, but he is oh so tired and they're warm hands...

And Sherlock can smell John nearby, that quintessential John smell, which reminds him he should work out that exact combination, he's sure there is a market for that, and John seems to be talking to him again, which is hard to hear over the pain in his head.

"For gods sake Sherlock stop kicking them. Calm down, they're just patching you up. We're going to the hospital. Oh for heavens- STOP THAT!"

This John scared him, and Sherlock stopped, afraid of angering him. It was easier this way, much less hurting and such warm hands, and oh those must be the good drugs because his head is not so sore anymore, and his mind palace seems to grow cushions out of its walls and invite him to curl up to sleep...

And John is there as he is jostled and lifted and bumped into an ambulance that is too bright and smells funny, but he still has John's hand and will never let go, even as he drifts off inside his mind palace. John will keep him safe while he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

There were so many things Sherlock had John to thank for.

There were so many things Sherlock knew only because John had taught him. Not that he would ever tell John this of course, he thought highly enough of himself as it is. But Sherlock had noted and categorized all of the useful bits of information john provided, while simultaneously weeding out the useless bits.

And while there were many useless bits, they were worth paying attention to, because once in a while he would say something Sherlock found incredibly helpful.

Like not laughing at a crime scene, not looking pleased at a crime scene no matter how interesting the crime was, that he shouldn't talk to people he didn't have to (ever), that threatening to kill people was never okay, even if that person was Anderson, that normal people didn't like to have the fact that they were having an affair pointed out in front of their husband or wife, and so on.

It was a bit tedious keeping track of all these new facts and not just deleting them like he did with most other things relating to social interactions, but they had been somewhat useful.

So he cleared some space out of his mind palace (in the Anderson insults room, but some of those were getting old anyway) and placed those valuable nuggets in safely.

And he followed these rules perfectly, exactly to the letter, and it seemed to please John.

And in a strange way, pleasing John pleased Sherlock, so he didn't mind doing it.


	3. Chapter 3

This isn't consciousness. No, it's so much nicer. Strangely, for most people, the realization that they are dreaming, or in an otherwise dreamlike state shocks them to the extent that they awaken. But Sherlock can't remember a dream when he wasn't aware it was a dream, and is used to this sort of thing.

This is a different sort though. This is unconsciousness. Deeply drugged unconsciousness. It makes everything hazy and soft, like a world made out of felt, with fuzzy lines and no structural stability.

It reminded Sherlock of the time The Woman had drugged him, but that was different. That was unexpected and new and structured, like she had snuck inside his mind palace and was pulling him about. Like she was in control. But this was not like that. This had no rules and it was frightening.

And while Sherlock knew he was only dreaming, that the whole world was still there right outside his mind, he was scared. He despised being scared. Sherlock knew John wouldn't be scared. John was interesting like that. So... unboring.

Suddenly John was there. But Sherlock knew it was impossible. This is his mind palace, isn't it? John can't come in; no one can.

But it's not his mind palace he realizes. No, this place smells of John and jumpers and feelings and doctor like things, the very things Sherlock despises about the hospitals John always wants to drag him to after he ingests poison or twists an ankle in a chase.

But John doesn't have a mind palace, everyone knows that. Besides, what would Sherlock be doing in it anyway?

But this isn't real. Not real. So he should be able to do what he wants; to go back to his own mind a palace to unravel the mystery that led to his being here. But he can't. It's like he's stuck in John, stuck like in jam. Which amuses Sherlock's aching mind, because he knows John likes jam, strawberry jam especially, and it's amusing he's thinking about jam inside John's mind place.

Is this thinking? What is thinking?

Why is it so silent here?

The jumpers, Sherlock decided. All of John's jumpers must be acting as a sort of silencing device for the... well Sherlock couldn't keep calling it a mind place because it was barely a flat at best.

Yes, John's mind flat.

The jumper must be acting as a sort of silencing device for John's mind flat.

Sherlock was pleased with this deduction, even though he knew it was well below him, but allowed himself this because of the drugs and the likely head injury he had received in the fall.

It was a fall wasn't it?

Yes, it was a fall, but not off of anything, not a free fall, but a tumbling, crashing, rolling fall.

Yes, Sherlock decided. He was pleased with this small progress.

But a fall during what? His being ached again. He didn't have anything to go on.

Head injury. Obvious. He can't even use that to determine the nature or length of the fall, because heads are so bloody unpredictable. Fall while skydiving and your head could be perfectly fine, but fall while rollerblading and you're destined to remain a vegetable. Useless.

Sherlock couldn't think anymore. His thinking hurt him. And John's mind flat was so quiet, and he might be able to get some rest...

But Sherlock remembers, John is there. It is his mind flat so he has a right to be there, he supposes, but still finds it unbelievable that John has any sort of mind structure to begin with.

Sherlock looks at John expectantly. John seems to like having answers, and Sherlock enjoys indulging him when he can.

But John mostly stands there uncomfortably, looking rather clueless and embarrassed to be lacking in knowledge.

They stay like that for some length of time that neither of them have any way of determining (that is if John exists outside of Sherlock's drugged and injured mind) until John finally says something.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but realizes he has no words. Bloody defective mind palace. Why did he have locks on his doors anyway?

John continues.

"You can't stay, obviously. So get out."

Sherlock stares at him. What is he talking about?

"Go Sherlock. Get out of here and go back to you bloody mind palace with your shiny hallways and banisters for sliding down." how did he know about those Sherlock wonders. "It's too quiet here for you anyway, you'd get bored and go mad. So. Shoo."

He pushes Sherlock to his feet, and somehow, Sherlock is leaving, no longer in John's mind flat, but no where. Except this nowhere is loud. Loud like his mind palace but without the walls and the comfort of knowing where everything is kept.

It's all Sherlock can do to curl up in a ball and keep from crying.

He decided he did not like this drugged and injured unconsciousness, no, not at all.

If – no when – he wakes up, he must inform John that whatever drugs he got this time, to never use again. Ever.

And then there is nothing but the noise and the salt on his cheeks that was there even though Sherlock specifically forbid it.


	4. Chapter 4

This was consciousness. Sherlock knew that for sure because of the hurt. Because while hurting seeped into delicious unconsciousness, it wasn't like this.

He knew he was in a new place. There was the ground (John), the ambulance (John), unconsciousness (John...) and now this, likely a hospital. (John?) The last John had shooed him away. What does that mean?

Right. Hospital. Yes?

Listing pain.

Head. Awful, but better than before.

What else hurt before?

Breathing. Yes, he recalls how awfully that hurt. But now...

It hurt substantially less, but was different. He couldn't quite tell how. Maybe later he would be able to put his finger on it.

Fingers, yes they're fine. One was heavy, _pulse ox. _

He wiggled them. Yes. They worked.

Hands. Only one is hurting much, _IV site. _

Arms. Not heavier than to be expected given this level of exhaustion. Not broken.

Toes. He wiggled them. Yes, not paralyzed.

Looking promising.

Leg... Right leg fine. Heavy, tired, but not overly painful. Bruises at most.

But left... it was different from usual. Heavy, sore, immobile. Broken. Casted? Yes. Full leg _broken tib/fib, likely had surgery, probably be in a large cast for a month, short cast another month. Damn. _

Back to the rest. Hips fine, abdomen... seemingly intact, no internal bleeding then. Also promising.

Chest. He knew he saved it for last (besides his head, not even going to bother with that now), as it was aching, and was not as promising as his limbs. Broken ribs likely, probably a collapsed lung, which would explain why it had hurt so much (yesterday? Earlier today? A week ago? How much time has elapsed?) before. Now the pain was coming from the chest tube _yes left lung between the fifth and sixth ribs _and the breathing – Oh there it was. It made him almost giddy to have solved the puzzle. That's what he couldn't figure out about the breathing before. _Endotracheal tube, mechanical ventilation, no wonder the air feels...stale? Can you taste when it bypasses your mouth? Put it on the list of experiments. _

He's embarrassed it took him this long though. What would John say?

John. _John at the... outside, ambulance, unconsciousness (in which he sent him away), and now? _

No sense of smell when you don't get to control breathing. He could fix that _pull it out it hurts anyway tape on his face, doesn't like not being in control of everything _but John wouldn't like that if he was here.

He could try opening his eyes, maybe see if John was there but it seemed so... boring. No, something clever. Right. Got it. Finger wiggling worked, not too much, so it would work.

He tapped. John knows morse code. If he was there, he would understand.

d. d. d. d.

Perhaps he was wrong. _John sent me away, it wasn't real, but it seemed so real, no, no, only my mind. But why would he come up with that if it had no basis in fact? Maybe John is angry, did he nearly die again? John seems to not like that..._

"Sherlock?"

If he could have sighed he would have. Thank you John. Thank you for being so damn observant and probably never leaving his side and knowing morse code and putting his head on his lap when he was hurt. Thank you.

And the thought of John definitely being there was enough to open his eyes.

Blurry as he was, Sherlock was able to confirm his brain was working. _Not shaved for three days, baggy sweater, same one he was wearing... when whatever happened, not been home to change then, likely not left his side, obviously not shaved, has he even been eating or drinking, looking paler than usual, mucous membranes dry, almost dehydrated, if he hasn't been drinking enough it's not likely he's been eating, especially knowing how dreadful the hospital food is. _

Yes, Sherlock thought. Brain still working.

But oh this dreadful tube, controlling his breathing, not allowing him to sigh with happiness or relief or to smell John. He missed John's smell. It has been three days. _Roughly. _

It made him so angry. He needed the smell of John to keep him tethered to the world, to sigh, because John understood all his sighs, all 74 of them, each one meaning something different and John understood them all. And now? He had morse code, which was nothing, boring, so much work and he was tired. He was angry.

His light hand _the left hand no pulse ox or IV no tubes to hold him down _found his mouth _much more difficult than he expected, but overly difficult should have been expected _and pulled, gagging _oh dear John don't be mad, but you're the only one who understands all 74 sighs and without that I have nothing _and John grapples with his hands but he really should have seen this coming, Sherlock was nothing if not predictable when it came to hospitals.

"Sherlock! You bloody idiot, stop that."

But Sherlock was winning, while coughing and gagging _maybe he should have made John do it he did seem to be a bit better with the whole doctor thing _but it was out and he will soon be able to sigh, to tell John 74 different things with only a single breath each.

But he opened his eyes and smiled at John before coughing, which felt like death again. And John was glaring but Sherlock could see the relief, right there on his face and Sherlock doesn't even realize it but he's actually pointing to John's face, who was still muttering obscene things at Sherlock, who was much too busy being happy to pay any attention to the words themselves beyond their general meaning.

And John was scrambling, looking at monitors and checking his pulse and grabbing an oxygen mask and shoving it on his face, while Sherlock knows he was still madly grinning and pointing to the little lines on John's face that mean he is happy.

Not happy because Sherlock was an idiot and started pulling out tubes without any regard for John's sanity, but happy because that was such a Sherlock thing to do, which meant he wasn't irreparably broken. Sherlock knew John found this a huge relief, as did he, because honestly, without his brain, Sherlock knew he was worthless.

And Sherlock realized he was suddenly exhausted, smiling is such hard work, so he lay back in the bed and let John fuss over him. And he sighed, sigh number 43 out of 74, the one that said 'thank you because I know I'm an idiot and yet you put up with me anyway'.

And that's all he needed to say.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, Sherlock promised himself, before he opened his eyes, he would not pull anything out. He would smile at John and not complain about being in the hospital. He would try to look grateful, and not for any reason use sighs 7, 13, or 69. Yes. That was manageable.

So he opened them, and yes John was there _of course where else would he be, you saw what he looked like before, worried sick _and he looked unimpressed, although somewhat relieved. So Sherlock tried his hardest to smile apologetically, and it either worked or looked awful enough that John decided to take pity on him.

So Sherlock waited, not patiently, but well enough, while John pulled his chair over and massaged the bags under his eyes with his hands. He looked tired _brilliant deduction but I was hoping you'd be able to go a bit deeper. _He shook his head, which was a mistake. John noticed this, despite Sherlock's attempt to hide the wince. Damn doctorly-ness. So he scowled before remembering he was going to smile, which he attempted to make his face do.

John looked a bit confused by Sherlock's change in expression, and he wished he could see what it was to make sure it was indeed a smile. He sometimes wasn't sure what his face was doing.

Thankfully John decided to spare Sherlock any more confusion.

"Umm... I'm not sure what your face is doing, but I'm glad you're awake."

Seeing how John wasn't really sure of how to continue, Sherlock decided this would be a good time to test his vocal cords and find out what happened.

"Wh- ha-d," he spat out, frustrated by this turn of events.

John looked slightly amused.

"Alright, don't bother. You'll just get yourself all worked up and end up nowhere. Well, I guess you're wondering what happened."

Sherlock gave him a look that said 'of course idiot' _not nice we said we were going to be nice he's just worried and tired and it's not his fault he's not as smart. _

Internal voices are concerning. But he filed that away for later and focused on John, who was rubbing his face again, likely wondering how to fill Sherlock in on events that he wasn't entirely sure of.

"Well there was a case, obviously. Do you remember that?"

_Crime scene, saw Molly at the morgue, which came first? And then there was Lestrade but what was the case?_

And as sudden and as bright as lightning it was all there. And it was solved too. But no one else knows it, he was chasing him when... Oh. That's what happened. _Murderer hill mud trees rock rockrockrock!_

The memory itself was painful. But Sherlock only nodded at John and waited for him to continue.

"Well, you had gone of chasing after some random guy, typical, and so me and Lestrade started chasing after you, but it was dark and we were out... somewhere, the middle of nowhere really, and I found you at the bottom of some hilly cliff thing, bleeding and unconscious!" John was visibly agitated by this time, pacing around the room and throwing his hands up as he said 'unconscious'.

Sherlock recalled a fact he had stowed away earlier, from another case with a situation like this, except for the actual falling part.

"Sherlock look at me!"

Something in John's tone made Sherlock's head snap up to meet John's eyes, for however briefly before returned his gaze to his shoes.

"Promise me you will NEVER do that again. Do you hear me? Promise!"

He started to open his mouth to object by John continued.

"You had me bloody terrified, you gone missing while look for a damn assassin who is well known for being quick to deal with anyone who bothered him and even quicker with his bloody swords! And then I find you bleeding and unconscious and I think you're dead, but you're only FAKING? Never! Again! You do not go running of without telling someone where you are going. I don't care who, me or Lestrade or Donovan or even Anderson, I don't care. But you have to promise me!"

Sherlock glanced back up at John's face briefly, noting it was flushed and sweaty and was definitely a serious 'I am pissed at you' face. He gave a quick nod, deciding it was better to just get this over with so he could go home and rinse the blood out of his hair.

"No Sherlock, I want to hear you say it."

"I promise," he muttered.

"Promise what?"

"I promise to not go running off after an assassin alone again."

John chewed on that for a minute before finally giving a quick but definitive nod, and turning towards the street to hail a cab. Sherlock followed behind him.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock jumped slightly at this, which gave his multiple aches a jolt of pain.

"Yeah," he croaked "I said assassin, and this-"

John cut him off, which he was slightly thankful for.

"So you run after him alone without telling anyone because he WASN'T an assassin?!"

Sherlock nodded miserably.

"I... didn't know... the rule applied..."

John quit his frantic pacing and spun on his heel to face Sherlock. Up close, Sherlock could no longer see the lines that he had before that meant John was happy. No, this was not a happy face.

"The rule? Sherlock do I need to write them all out for you in a little manual stating what is and isn't 'good' for you to do?"

Sherlock suspected this was a rhetorical question and didn't answer. This was confirmed when John continued without a response.

"Seriously Sherlock? You're the world's only consulting detective and yet you need a list of rules like a five year old?"

Sherlock was confused. Didn't John just ask this? Was he not being serious?

He was suddenly exhausted again. And even a bit angry. Here he was, hurt and in hospital, still a bit clueless about what had even happened, and John was yelling at him for something he didn't understand. People should be more like crime scene.

"John..."

"I'm not finished Sherlock."

"The murderer...you have to get him..."

John softened.

"We did. The idiot fell into the stream at the bottom of the cliff you fell down and couldn't swim. He called to us to rescue him. Lestrade fished him out after he confessed."

Oh. Well that was rather good he supposed. _Confession won't hold up in court, not under those circumstances, never._

He sighed loudly, shoving himself back into his pillows.

John glanced at him before slumping back into his chair, sighing himself.

"Sorry. I'm just tired, it's been a long couple of - "

"Four days," Sherlock interjected without opening his eyes. "Three days unconscious originally, I woke up yesterday, but you probably drugged me again after what I did." He smirked slightly as he said this. He opened one eye lazily at John. "Am I wrong?"

"No. Are you going to sleep again? I can get the nurse-"

_No, you have to tell him that went badly, not again._

"No!" Sherlock yelled, sitting bolt upright before realizing what a mistake that was. He groaned. "No, those drugs were not good. Back... my mind palace... and your flat..."

"Well, okay then," John said uneasily, "I'll get her to use different ones."

"No, no... I'll just sleep."

He could feel John's quizzical look, but the enjoyable feeling of the drug high was not worth another scene like the last one, being in a mind he didn't recognize.

No, this would do fine.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, just to make sure I've got this straight, you followed him because he wasn't an assassin and when you promised me not to follow people without telling someone first you used the word assassin. So therefore, the rule didn't apply in this case."

"Precisely."

John looked a bit like a sixth grader faced with an algebra problem for the first time. Sherlock found this amusing and filed the look away for later.

He straightened himself up on the pillows as best he could. John continued to shuffle around the room, muttering something to himself about rules, and books, and five-year-olds, and finding a new flat, because this was bloody well ridiculous.

"I can hear you," he pointed out.

John ignored him.

"Fine. But we'll see who the five-year-old is when you're the one refusing to talk to me."

After much pacing, more muttering, and minimal hand wringing, John finally stopped and threw himself back into the chair. Sherlock was thankful for this; it was exhausting just to watch.

"Fine. I'll write you an adorable little rule book okay?"

He sounded bitter about this, which Sherlock couldn't understand. He patted the hospital sheets down around him before deciding what to say.

"Thank you John."

For some reason, John only looked irritated by his gratitude.

Sherlock sifted through conversation starters, before deciding he would need to go through and create a separate category for John because, really, asking what he thought of the weather was out of contention.

"You're looking better," he finally settled on. It was true. Sherlock had insisted John go home last night, at least to shower and change, maybe even to shave.

He looked up at John eagerly. He should be proud of him. But John wasn't looking and didn't even seem to have heard him. Sherlock coughed politely to get his attention, which only turned into a hack that left him out of breath and aching. John looked at him distractedly.

"Are you even listening to me?"

John blinked, like he was just realizing Sherlock was there and was speaking to him. Sherlock began to open his mouth but was cut off by the start of what appeared to be one of John's rare but frightening tirades.

"You're so high maintenance. You know why they had to intubate you? It wasn't from the surgery, no, you did great in the surgery, they extubated you in the operating theatre and everything. No, they had to reintubate you the next day, when they tried to lighten the sedation. That was when you went crazy, making all sorts of dreadful noises, like you were being murdered, and you kept thrashing about. They were concerned about you pulling your chest tube out or wrecking your leg which they just set, and your blood pressure was so high you could've stroked out. They had to paralyse and sedate you to keep you from hurting yourself. What the hell was going on in that bloody brilliant brain of yours?"

Sherlock  
sat silently for a moment.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sherlock this isn't something you can just delete -"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!"

John was silent for a moment. Sherlock hoped he would just let it go, but knew John wasn't one to do that.

"You said something about the drugs," he whispered, "was that it?"

He looked at Sherlock pathetically, and he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"I'm going to sleep now," Sherlock declared.

John snorted. "Bullocks!"

Sherlock manged to suppress most of a smile, and twisted the remains into a sort of smirk or grimace, while rolling onto his side away from John.

But he knew John noticed. John does that.


	7. Chapter 7

"John."

John raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no other indication that he heard Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock repeated more loudly.

John sighed and folded the paper he was holding (Sherlock hated newspapers, they wrinkled and didn't fit in your hands and never folded back up right) before looking at Sherlock.

"Yes Sherlock?" he said with a tone that one would use with a particularly irritating child.

"Bored," Sherlock replied in a flat voice.

"Well, perhaps you make a list of things you would like me to outline in the book I have to write for you," he offered evenly.

"I want to go home," he whined.

John took several deep breaths before replying. "No. You can't go home yet. Besides, you still have a chest tube."

"You can take it out."

"No."

"I'll take it out."

"Go for it."

Sherlock frowned. It was very un-John like for him to be so unconcerned for his well being.

"Fine."

He lifted his gown up, exposing the neatly bandaged area on his left side.

"Why won't you take it out," he demanded.

"Your doctor's orders. Besides, you're still bleeding when you cough."

Sherlock peered over the side of the bed, and surely enough, there was a small amount of blood in the drainage canister. _Mildly interesting. A hemothorax is more interesting than a pneumothorax. But that means the broken rib actually punctured my lung. At least it explains the pain._

Sherlock sighed dramatically, resisting the urge to cough.

"John, I want my chart."

"No."

"I'll get it myself if I have to."

John knew this was true, Sherlock could see that much on his face. He also saw John thinking it over before finally giving in. He stretched out of his chair, grabbed Sherlock's chart off the end of the bed and practically threw it at his.

"Careful John! I'm _injured._"

John snorted. "Yeah, well remember this next time you want to run after some homicidal maniac."

"If I had a book..." he pointed out.

"Fine." He stood up. "I'll run home and grab my laptop so I can start writing you a book."

Sherlock sensed some sarcasm in his response.

"You're leaving?" He tried to sound as pitiful as possible, and look small under the hospital sheets. John stopped at the door, and turned to face him.

"Fine, if you want me to stay, I'll stay. I'll call Molly or Mrs Hudson and have them bring my laptop."

Sherlock grinned.

"Right. That and the fact that you've been waiting here for five days while I'm been mostly unconscious, so there's zero chance that you don't have it here already. You wanted to leave for a while. You're sick of me."

John had reached the bed by this time, and Sherlock saw... hurt, but only for a second before John turned to head towards the door again.

"I'm not sure why I even bother. Can I leave? Or will you fake cry again?"

"Oh, by all means. Feel free to run away for a while. I'll be just fine. If I don't die of boredom."

John sighed as he reached the door. Digging around in his jacket pocket, he found something and pulled it out. Throwing it at Sherlock, he remarked, "Don't do anything stupid. No cases. No taunting criminals, and don't text Anderson insults again."

Sherlock caught his phone and turned it on.

Eight messages. John had been holding out on him. Alas, none were important, and Sherlock remained bored.

Sleep? He might as well. It's not like there are so many other options.


	8. Chapter 8

The Consulting Detective's Rule Book.

John scratched his head, then erased the last three words. He replaced them with

The Consulting 5-year-old's Rule Book

He snickered before remembering Sherlock had been asleep. He snuck a glance at him, noting that although he appeared to be asleep, that really meant nothing.

_Oh well. I'm sure he'll deduce the hell out of me later, so no point worrying now. _

John sat there for a while, pecking out rules that even 5-year-olds should know, but that Sherlock had seemed to miss out on.

Before chasing after anyone who may at all be dangerous or involved with a crime, inform one of the following people: John, Lestrade, Donovan, Mycroft. Even better, take them with you.

Before leaving for days without communicating, inform one of the following people where you are going and what you are doing: John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Molly.

And it went on, until John had lost count, his vision blurring as he tired, finally nodding off as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, his flatmate fiddling, barely noticeable, with his chest tube.

And John smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

Three months later, Sherlock had recovered, shedding the final casts and scars. A particularly interesting crime had come up where people were being murdered solely through the internet. Or so it seemed. Sherlock had followed a trail that lead him to a chemistry teacher at a local high school, and was pursuing him when something niggled in the back of his mind.

He crouched behind a wall and paused. What was it?...

A conversation he'd had with John while still in hospital came to mind.

"I wrote you this ridiculous manual, so you had better read it and store it away in your bloody mind palace. Got it?"

Sherlock had nodded, flipping through it, smiling at the statements John had attempted to make air tight, leaving no room for confusion.

_Never ever take a pill if you don't know what it contains. Ever. Under any circumstances._

Sherlock had flipped through, noting all 23 rules, and had tossed the book aside. John looked irked.

"I'm ready to go home now," he announced.

Sherlock noted the not so subtle signs of anger on his blogger's face.

"Really Sherlock? I work for hours on that and you just throw it aside and announce you're ready to go?"

Sherlock huffed. "John, I read it. I know it. I hardly need to keep it for... sentimental reasons." He continued, "so take the chest tube out so we can return to Baker Street. I've got an experiment that needs to be checked on."

He watched John think through his options, none of which were particularly appealing or easy, before just giving in the Sherlock's demands, only after he promised NO cases for two weeks, and no walking on his broken leg. And Sherlock has obliged, only too happy to be leaving, as he was oh, so, bored.

And now, Sherlock's mind flipped through the book, stopping at the rule that had landed him in the hospital in the first place.

Before chasing after anyone who may at all be dangerous or involved with a crime, inform one of the following people: John, Lestrade, Donovan, Mycroft. Even better, take them with you.

He scoffed at the idea of taking Mycroft on a chase, or even informing Sally of his plans. So he got out his phone and, better yet, texted both John and Lestrade.

On the trail of a murderer. Thought you might want to come. Sent you a map image of my location. But really, no rush. -SH

And off he went, pleased that John could not fault him this time.

Because he had read his Rule Book.

Even though it had the ridiculous name of The Consulting 5-year-old's Rule Book.


End file.
